Janet Buck
For so many years,
September was a bridge
from wrinkled bulbs
of last tomatoes on the vine
to primal layers of frost,
a bridge to foggy Halloween --
children trading chocolate bars,
stuffing their loot in a pillowcase.
Dowry of hope rattled in pockets
in musical ways --
now the nickel
is crushed by headlines
on the evening news.
Acid reflux of ash covers
the cheek of a waning moon.
First New York, then land
after land after land.
September turns the haunted month.
Apparitions are real,
real as the last letter home
from a soldier stationed in Tikrit.
Bones beneath a coffin's lid
scatter like pencils in echoing vaults --
becoming viscid roots of chaos
ruling every sidewalk's crack.
Tyrants in their busy trances
argue as the bodies fall.
We ache for a calm perch
beside a trustable stream.
A beating heart, a fist to clench.
Eleven is a jail cell of abject fear
from crawling dawn to dragging dusk.
Who wrote this atlas with these lines:
clashing, seldom parallel.
Copyright (c) 2004 by Janet Buck